A Price to Pay
by hisorako
Summary: As a child, Scipio raged with a quiet sort of rebellion. As an adult, he raged with a quiet sort of regret. Every actor in the drama of the Thief Lord has changed. And nothing - nothing - will ever be the same again.
1. Awake

_Things in this world hoped for, longer for, and obtained are not always as we believe them to be. And what if Scipio were to discover that truth? That, as miserable as he might have been, it was nothing compared to the fate he had brought upon himself? I've always wondered what happened to him after the book - did he continue on, happy in his adult life? Or is the truth more sobering - that he found himself deep in regret for what he had done? This is my heart-felt figuring of how he might have felt, how he might have loved. This is _A Price to Pay.

_Dedicated to Hei Ryung-unni, for introducing me to the seductive and beautiful world of _The Thief Lord _and the warm and welcoming world of FanFiction, and to Priya-chan, who was the Prosper to my Scipio, a friend who makes me regret growing up so fast and growing so far apart. You are both my sisters, not by blood, but by stronger things._

* * *

A boy lies awake in his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. He is alone - and hasn't he always been? Rejecting the presence of his father and of most others, he holds company with only his cat and five friends of the human sort. These friends are his gang, the people he horses around with and pulls small heists from his own home for. They are the poor, the orphaned, the unfortunate souls, but that is precisely why he relates to them - he too is unfortunate, unfortunate to be living in a lavishly furnished tomb of a home with his rich but unloving and unforgiving father. The only time he can end his playacting of a dutiful son is when he is with his gang. And the only time he can truly be himself is when he is no longer himself - when he is the Thief Lord.

He hears the rhythmic clicking of the grandfather clock in the main hall as the pendulum swings back and forth, back and forth. What if his friends were to see him like this, lying in a comfortable bed in a home that is not a house but a palace? What if they were to know the truth behind his cunning lies and daring heists? What if they were to know him as he is, a spoiled brat, not worthy to be called a man? He banishes those thoughts, shaking his head as if they might tumble out of his head and onto long-tufted carpet that lined his bedroom floor. But they did not, as he might have vainly hoped, escape into the stuffy, dusty air of the house; instead, they fell upon him, eating away at his securities.

His mind takes on a life of its own, imagining the disgusted faces of his friends, of Mosca, of Hornet, of Prosper, of Riccio...of Bo. He twists madly in his sheets, fidgeting in nausea at the thought of the little boy who had so much looked up to him turning his back on him, crestfallen. Then his thoughts turn to the day when they will finally know the truth, the day all he can see of them will be their retreating backs in the Venetian moonlight. He will call their names, call apologies to them, but they will not turn back; they will refuse to see their former leader in the light of his disgrace. And, on that that day, he will have to return to being the person he once was, the one they all believe he'd be: the spoiled-rotten heir to the Massimo fortune, the one to carry on his father's duties and affairs.

This thought, too much to bear, torments him; he lies in a state of dementia, of illusion, between the domains of wake and sleep, and of life and death. He hurls through a nightmare world in which no one and nothing is safe. He is spun in dizzying cycles of things known and unknown, of reality and invention. No corner is without its demons; they circle him, converging on him as if he were a mouse and they were hawks, ravenous with hunger. They consume him and all is dark.

* * *

_Dong, dong, dong, dong_, the grandfather clock strikes, cutting into the world of dreams the boy's mind has built around itself. And that is what saves him. He awakens at the twelfth stroke and, dizzy with fever, hurries to his mirror. He feels his tousled hair, his sweat-wetted forehead, his pounding chest, and knows that he is alive. Dead no longer, he runs to don the mask, the dark, sharp-beaked border between reality and fantasy. Lowering himself out of the tall window, to the deserted streets below, he becomes himself, a figure shrouded in lie and truth.

* * *

A young man is pacing, sleepless, his shadow thrown on the plain linoleum-carpeted floor from the moonlight of the small window beside his narrow bed. His long hair swishes quietly back and forth as he loses himself in thought. He remembers the events of two years past, of the arrival of the two brothers, of the search of the Stella, of the lion's wing, of the mist-shrouded island, of the magical merry-go-round, of becoming an adult. He strokes the bit of stubble on his chin. Growing it out, he feels, would just be a little too...Barbarossa-esque. He smiles a bit, remembering the old Red Beard. Oh, how small and helpless he became after shrinking into a child. The man chuckles at the thought, but grows solemn at the remembrance of the cursed carousel. Cursed, he calls it, because, as he thinks of it now, it robbed him of his childhood. At a time where other young people are frolicking and having first loves, he is kept busy at work.

He sighs. He is known as a cool and astute young detective, but this exterior is only a curtain over the windows of his soul, concealing his deepest desire: to return to how he was. He misses being able to run through the streets, free as a bird, or visit the gang at the Stella. He would give anything, he would even go back to his father's house, just to be there again, just to become the fifteen year-old child he is deep inside.

But, no matter how much he wishes, he cannot have what he longs for. The merry-go-round has long since disappeared and Venice no longer holds the same magic it once did. There are no unicorns gallivanting about, no mermen leaning out from the shadows, no winged lions flying from their posts.

He gives a wry smile at the now-snoring detective who took him in. Victor, he'd miss. He'd miss this life, of adventure, of endless possibilities. But he knows that this life would be waiting for him if he were himself again. He would be in no rush.

He stalks over to the table and picks up the morning's newspaper. Lighting a candle, he can make out, through the flickering light, the day's headline: "Restored Lion Wing Sold Off At An Exorbitant Price". He lurches forward. A lion's wing. A replacement for the one the red-headed terror had broken off? He's not sure, but his heart alights with hope as he reads on.

"'The lion wing, estimated to be at least over a century old, appears to have originated in Italy. It was up for auction at Christie's in its Milan saleroom. It began at a high 22,358,867 lire. The auction ended with a bid of 25,800,000 lire from a Mr. Lorenzo Conte,'" he reads aloud softly.

Lorenzo Conte. It sounded familiar, but was faded by time. He has to know where he heard that name.

"Lorenzo. Lorenzo. Conte," he repeats. "Conte Lorenzo. Conte Renzo."

Conte Renzo. The old man he met in the confessional. The old man who requested a lion's wing. The old man who became young again. He grips the paper hard, crinkling it. Renzo was here somewhere, somewhere near Milan. And, if he didn't know better, maybe someplace near Venice. He picks up the cordless phone and dials a familiar number.

"_Buonsera_, Signora Spavento," he says with a hint of a smile. "_Si_; I believe I have a lead...would you mind lending your assistance?"

And, as he speaks, he rummages under his bed and pulls out a long-beaked mask. And, as he ran his fingers over his contours, he smiled, really smiled, for the first time in a long year.

The Thief Lord was back.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Did you enjoy it? I hope to make this a multi-chapter fic from others' points-of-view. But before doing that, I'd like to get your opinion - would it better or ruin it?_


	2. Together

_Welcome back! Thank you for your continuing support. There is one thing I'd like to make sure you understand: this story really contains several little stories and they are not all placed at the same time. On that note, shall we return to the world of the Thief Lord and his gang?_

_Dedicated to Sarah J. Maas, a true inspiration. Thank you for giving me a special kind of hope._

_(You can skip the next section if you didn't write a review; it's just replies.)_

_ MTLupy: I understand your concern over the currency. As I was researching for the story, I found that, though the euro had been in use in Italy for many years, Cornelia chose to use the lire instead. It seems to me that she meant to convey a timeless, magical Venice, without cellphones and mp3 players: a time where people appreciated the slowly-sinking island city. This is the world of the Thief Lord and I intend to keep it that way._

_ Madison: Thank you! I completely agree with you! To me, posting stories online (even anonymously) requires a lot of courage, so if you're going to do it, you've got to do it right. I know that some stories are written by young children (under thirteen years old) and others are written by those with learning and other writing disabilities, but the majority of poorly-written stories are not in either of these categories. Serious stories are to be given the best possible effort. I've written a "for fun" series and it's not quite up to par, but, for the most part, stories have to be written right._

"_Thief Lord."_

"_Thief Lord."_

_The name seems to resound, a gong voicing its echoes, whispering into the ears of a young boy. At its touch, the boy recoils, turning back, compulsed by some strange intuition. And, as his eyes flit about in the darkness, the night is ablaze. Moonlight strikes the silhouette of a tall man with high cheekbones, his hair long and blowing carelessly in the breeze. The boy reaches forward to touch him, to grab his coat. He wants attention; but, most of all, he wants revenge. As he draws near, the moon beams disappear and, as if by magic, the man is gone with them._

_Boom! _The clouds roar with thunder and rain splatters against windowpanes with a constant _pitter-patter_. Another sound fills the room amidst the barely-morning silence. _Pant, pant. _A boy sits up in bed, gasping for breath. His pajamas are soaked with sweat and cling tightly to his lean frame. Squinting to read the clock on the opposite wall, he curses under his breath. "Curse you, Scipio. Curse you and all your bratty little orphan friends."

He dresses quickly, having given up all hope of further sleep. He hates to be unproductive; time is money. As he buttons his shirt, he ambles over to the window, peering out into the still-dark morning. The rain may have stopped, but the campus is murky and still, but for the sole shape of a girl. Leaving the top two buttons undone, he throws on his overcoat and opens the windows, hastily scrambling down the roof. Stalking his prey, he walks the roof for a while, though it's wet and causes his shoes to slip a bit. At the perfect moment, behind the dormitories where no one will see, he takes flight. The coat flapping behind him, useless as wings, he falls through the damp air. Landing a perfect crouch, he hears an audible gasp and smiles inside. At least someone is impressed by his skill. And he looks up.

The girl's fear is written on her face only a second before it becomes concern. She reaches out to touch his shoulder. And he shies away. She frowns. "Now, you haven't anything to worry about. I just wanted to make sure you were alright." She turns away. "But I suppose you are." She begins to step into the fog when he reaches out and grabs her arm. She looked at him, her face stricken with surprise. He is equally baffled, but tries not to let it show.

"You must be wet." He's not quite sure where these words come from; he, in all the long years of his former life and of his present life, has never felt worry nor affection for anything but money. Neither has he, to anyone, been polite in earnest. He wonders what this feeling is, the warmth that seeps through his heart when he looks at her. "Have you any place to go?"

A peculiar look crosses her face. He worries that perhaps he has offended her. Was he improper? He racks his brain for anything that might help. But he always daydreamed in etiquette class and his mind has nothing to offer.

"No." The honesty in her eyes startles him almost as much as the simper forming on her lips and the blush appearing on her cheeks.

He puts a hand to cheek and can feel a glow shining through. And, though mentally cursing himself for showing emotion, he still smiles at her, taking her hands in his.

"Perhaps we can fix that."

And, as they vanished into the early-morning fog, the air rang with another word thought and left unspoken.

_Together._

_Thank you for reading this story and this chapter. Honestly, I've had this idea stuck in my head for a while now and wanted to get it out there. In the book, Barbarossa was always alone and always only a greedy old man without an ounce of sincerity. But when the carousel changed him into a little child...well, perhaps he'd have a good second life and even fall in love. Because we all would like a second chance, wouldn't we?_


End file.
